


Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

by ClearEyes95



Series: How Lucky We Are To Be Alive Right Now [3]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mexican Revolution Background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 01:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13400883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClearEyes95/pseuds/ClearEyes95
Summary: Héctor could feel the final death coming, and he was resigned to his fate. He would be forgotten and the world would go on as if he had never existed. Nevertheless, he wasn't a quitter, and he wouldn't rest until he saw his daughter at least one more time before he vanished from existence.





	Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, me again!  
> If anybody has recognized where the titles come from, please do say so in the comments.  
> There will be more parts coming, but this one I believe is going to become one of my favorites. I cannot promise regular updates, which is why I'm posting this series as one-shots and not as chaptered stories, but I will do my best, I will try, to upload at least once a week.  
> I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.  
> I don't own the titles I'm using in this series.  
> Enjoy!

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story.

_Year: 1920_

The last thing Héctor remembered was pain. He was walking with Ernesto to the train station when he felt a stabbing pain in his stomach. He remembered that it felt as if he was burning from the inside out, and then his chest tightened and he couldn’t breathe. He was vaguely aware of Ernesto yelling something before everything turned black.

When he came to, he was a skeleton. A walking, talking skeleton, signing bureaucracy papers about his own death. No one came to the Department of Family Reunions to welcome him into the land of the dead either; both his parents were still alive, he didn’t remember his grandparents at all, and he was an only child. His wife, gracias al cielo, was also still alive with their daughter, Coco.

He dealt with all the paperwork almost mechanically, going through the motions, not stopping to think about much. However, once he was out on the streets of the Land of the Death, surrounded by skeletons that seemed to date to the time of the conquistadores, the reality of his situation hit him.

He was dead.

He would never see Imelda again.

He would never see Coco again.

Did they even know he passed away? Did Ernesto go back to Santa Cecilia to deliver the news? Did he have a funeral? He didn’t know, and wouldn’t be able to know until Día de Muertos. He fully trusted his family to put up his photo on the ofrenda, but it still scared him the possibility that they wouldn’t.

He found a bench to sit on in the middle of the busy street, realizing that his breathing was shallow. He was only twenty-five years old, with a small family, with hope and dreams for the future. Now he had nothing.

As it turns out, the Land of the Dead worked very much like the Land of the Living. They had their own currency, homes, markets, and stores. In order to earn money, he had to work. When the deceased had a family, they had the advantage of an already established home with people who had a trade. Most of the times, the deceased took up the trade of their families, and so the cycle went on. Héctor had nothing. If the person, or family, had a reputation, it was even easier because they could just continue on with their lives as if they had never died.

He started by doing small jobs cleaning, helping, waiting, and so on. The meager income he made was enough to get him a small room in the Shantytown, the lowest part of the city in citizens and income. When he moved in, he got pitying glances from his neighbors, but they were overall a welcoming bunch. When he told them that he would go to the Land of the Living in Día de Muertos, some laughed, while others just looked at him condescendingly. They didn’t say anything.

Finally, seven months after his dead, Día de los Muertos finally arrived.

Héctor did his hair, even if the living would see him, and tried to clean his ragged clothes as best as he could. His neighbors waved him goodbye with pitying glances that he decided to ignore, and he made his way to the Marigold Bridge. He stood up in line like everyone else, and when he got his turn, he stood in front of the camera.

“Sorry, but no one has put up your photo on any ofrenda,” the old woman at the machine told him, “please leave the line.”

“That’s not possible, my family has to have put up my photo. Could you try again?” Héctor asked, trembling with shock and dread. The woman looked at him unimpressed, probably used to this, but did as he asked.

“Sorry, still no photo. No photo, no crossing the bridge. Now, please leave the line.”

This time, Héctor obliged. He walked numbly all the way back to his small room in Shantytown and ignored the neighbors that greeted him. They all shared knowing looks and left him alone. Some exchanged some coins between them.

That night, as Héctor wallowed in self-pity, he really felt like crying. However, skeletons can’t cry, so he had a stone lodged in his throat, his breathing was coming in and out and ragged sobs and his head hurt, but no tears leaked from his eyes. It was the first time he’d cried without tears. He didn’t leave his hut the following two weeks until Chicharrón barged in with a guitar and demanded from Héctor to stand up and do something with his life.

Héctor did his best to ignore him until Chicharrón started singing that ridiculous song about Juanita. That night, they got drunk. The tall skeleton didn’t even think that was possible, yet it happened, and without a hangover to speak of the next day. Héctor had made a vow to never drink when he married Imelda, but he broke his vow, like so many others.

No wonder Imelda didn’t put up his picture.

* * *

_Year: 1945_

            Ernesto’s death was broadcasted over the entirety of the Land of the Dead. It had been a long time since Héctor realized that the songs Ernesto sang used to be his. He cringed when he heard Ernesto’s version of “Remember Me,” and he hadn’t touched a guitar since.

As more people arrived from the Land of the Living, some of them from Santa Cecilia, Héctor found out that Imelda had opened a shoe workshop and made shoes for a living, and he was relieved and proud that Imelda did something of her life after his sudden death. However, he also found out through the neighbors some worrying news, mainly that Ernesto had told everyone that Héctor had abandoned him the middle of their tour in order to seek fame in the United States of America. Because of that, the neighbor told him, Imelda had banished music from her life, and if anyone mentioned his name, she would throw a chancla at them.

Now that Ernesto was in the Land of the Dead, Héctor wanted answers. He wanted to know what happened that night, why he lied to his family and why he never told anyone that Héctor was the author of his songs.

He tried every legal way he could to contact him. He went to signing events, parties, places where he would see Ernesto and maybe confront him. When he was unsuccessful, he tried less legal measures. ‘Tried’ being the keyword.

His first attempt consisted of sneaking in backstage after a concert. He was caught and kicked out. The second time he attempted it, he got banned from Ernesto de la Cruz’s events.

His second attempt was a little more complicated and involved sneaking into Ernesto’s home. He got caught and taken to the police. Once there, Ernesto arrived to testify.

“Ernesto!” Héctor called, “Ernesto!”

The man in question turned and regarded him with disdain. For a second, his eyes widened in recognition, but he was able to school his features. He looked away from the jailed skeleton and gave his statement:

“This man is obsessed with me. He tried to go backstage multiple times illegally, a lot of times inebriated, and threatened my life. Tonight, he attempted to get into my home. I demand you do something about it.”

Héctor couldn’t believe his friend would backstab him like that. He just wanted answers! Ernesto probably didn’t recognize him, but at the same time, why lie about the threats? After that, the famous musician left and Héctor was left to rot in jail for three months, missing that year Día de Muertos.

When he got back to the slums, he didn’t leave his hut for another two.

* * *

 

_Year: 1966_

For years Héctor tried tirelessly to cross the Marigold Bridge, and each year he failed. He had come to understand that Imelda never forgave him for leaving and dying, and that was okay with him. However, he couldn’t believe that Imelda would be so cold hearted that he wouldn’t let him see his daughter.

While Héctor didn’t understand why Ernesto didn’t tell his family the truth, he understood why his picture was never in the ofrenda, and probably would never be. However, once Imelda passed away, and he hoped she didn’t any time soon, he could explain to her what really happened.

Imelda arrived at the Land of the Death in 1966, after passing away from pneumonia in the night at seventy years old. She also arrived alone, for most of her relatives had been forgotten or were alive. Héctor was listed as her husband, so he was notified of her dead and went to welcome her.

He got a chancla to the skull and a number of appellatives which he had never heard her say in life.

“Please, let me explain,” Héctor pleaded with her.

“No, you lost your chance a long time ago when you decided to leave your wife,” Imelda replied, stoic, cold and guarded.

“I died!” he exclaimed, frustrated that she wouldn’t listen.

“Good riddance!” she yelled back with a glare that threatened to light him on fire. Héctor felt himself die all over again.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, voice low and trembling.

“I do,” she stated with finality and Héctor’s shoulders sagged.

“Please…” he begged one last time.

“Leave,” she ordered, and Héctor, more exhausted than he’d ever been, couldn’t do anything more than obey. Maybe in a couple of years, she would cool down enough so that they could talk like civilized people.

Turns out, she didn’t cool down in the next couple of years, neither in the next decade. Every time Héctor tried to approach her, she would turn him away with a look of disdain. He ended up believing that he truly deserved that treatment; after all, he’d left his family. Yet, even when he was resigned that he and Imelda would never get back together, at least he wanted to know about Coco.

However, when he approached Imelda Rivera’s household, a tall man he didn’t know opened the door. Looking at the tall man with spectacles and a mustache, Héctor felt his breath leaving him. _She remarried then._

“Who are you?” the man asked him, puzzled.

“I’m… I… I’m just the neighbor, welcoming you into the Land of the Dead,” Héctor lied, “Is Imelda home, by any chance?”

“No, I’m afraid she went out, but thanks for coming by,” the man said and started closing the door.

“Wait… em… when did you… arrive?” Héctor then asked. The man raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Last week.”

“Oh, that’s… nice, I guess. I didn’t know Mrs. Imelda had remarried,” Héctor said, obviously prying but trying to pass it off as a curious neighbor. Both man’s eyebrows raised into his hat.

“She didn’t,” he said, “I’m his brother. Well, technically, half-brother, but…” he trailed off with a shrug.

“I didn’t know she had a brother,” Héctor then said with a crease in his brow. Again, the man shrugged.

“We didn’t either, we found her by coincidence. Apparently, her father cheated on her mother with mine, and we were born,” the man explained.

“We?”

“Me and my brother; we’re twins.”

“Hijo de tu… what are you doing in my home?!” a shrill voice interrupted their conversation, and Héctor visibly cringed as Imelda charged against him from across the street.

“Imelda! I just met your neighbor!” the man waved towards her sister. Imelda replied with a scowl.

“He’s not a neighbor, Oscar, he’s the lowlife who abandoned Coco and me,” she said, her boot already in hand, and Héctor slowly retreated.

The man’s eyes, Oscar’s, narrowed at him and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“I was just leaving,” Héctor said, shrinking in on himself, and ran the opposite way Imelda was coming. He didn’t stop until he was halfway across the city, where he stopped to catch his breath. Part of him felt kind of relieved that she had never remarried, while another part of him grieved for all he lost.

It surprised him that as the years went by, he became numb to his life in the Land of the Dead. He looked back on his death almost with indifference and was more than resigned to Imelda’s rejection. At this point, he’d been dead more time than he’d been alive, and the thought brought a humorless laugh out of him.

He was, officially, out of ideas and out of motivation.

* * *

_Year: 2012_

Héctor felt the final death coming.

He wasn’t surprised, Coco had been born almost a hundred years ago, so she had lived more than most people can say they had the privilege to. In fact, Coco had leaved nearly four times he had. And he was happy for that. Still, by the time Coco arrived in the Land of the Dead, he would be gone. He knew with cold certainty that he would never see his daughter again.

He hadn’t cried without tears for years, but this thought broke the dam. Years of failed attempts, years of trying to get answers, years of trying to rekindle with his family had been useless. He would vanish, forgotten by everyone, alone and abandoned.

He felt it first in the way his bones kept falling off. He felt it in the way he couldn’t walk straight anymore. Then, after a month and a half of light symptoms, he felt the spams. Spams that lit his bones golden, spams that told him his time was running out.

Nevertheless, Héctor wasn’t a quitter, and if he had to disappear, he would disappear trying to cross the Marigold Bridge one last time.

He didn’t expect to find his great-great grandson cursed to be in the Land of the Dead only because he wanted to play music. He didn’t expect Miguel to believe that de la Cruz was part of his family, but the kid was smart and he recognized the guitar in that old picture. Héctor’s guitar, which had been stolen by his so-called best friend, who also happened to be his murdered, had opened the key to answer all his questions. All and all, Héctor thought he could finally rest now that he finally solved the mystery of his unfair, untimely death.

Watching his grandson be thrown into the abyss only added salt to the injury, and weak as he was, Héctor had been useless to stop it. He was overcome with despair, grief, and sorrow. He thought that his mistakes had costed another innocent, young and promising life. Gracias al cielo Pepita caught Miguel just in the nick of time, and they sent him home before the sun rose.

And now, as he stared at the orange sky slowly turning blue, tinted by the golden glow of his fading bones, he felt at peace. Imelda was by his side in a way he’d given up a long time ago. The family she built, the one he never knew, watched from the sidelines in respectful silence. Millions of people on the Land of the Dead had watched the unmasking of a murder and the face of an innocent. It still didn’t stop him from fading, but at least he knew that the truth had been discovered, and for that, he couldn’t help but be grateful.

“I’m sorry,” Imelda said in a broken whisper, her eyes glossy, from her place next to him and her back to the sunset. It made her look beautiful, radiant, like an angel covered in light, although different from the light that now covered his bones.

“It’s not your fault,” Héctor repeated his earlier statement with a voice that was stuttering and quivering, weak.

“I should have listened to you,” she lamented, and he suspected that she would be crying if she could. Héctor knew that feeling all too well.

“You didn’t know,” the skeleton replied. Imelda didn’t, but she didn’t have to in order for him to understand that she was blaming herself. After all, she’s the one who ripped his face off the family picture, and yet, “I don’t blame you.”

A quivering chuckle escaped her lips, but again she remained silent. In a second, the light flared and Héctor sighed deeply. His time had come.

“Te amo,” he whispered with the last of his strength, closing his eyes to the exhaustion that had overcome him. The last thing he was heard before darkness consumed him sounded, shockingly, like a sob.

* * *

_Year: 2013_

Héctor clutched his hat tightly in his bony hands, a familiar sense of dread settling in his empty abdominal cavity like a rock. He saw his family before him smile reassuringly at him as they crossed to the other side of the barrier, and he couldn’t help but resent them a little bit. Of course, he would be nervous if he spent eight and plus years, he lost count, trying to cross the bridge unsuccessfully.

However, when Coco had joined them in the Land of the Dead three months ago, she was happy to tell her father that she had saved the torn part of the picture which held his face and that Miguel had put it back together. She assured him that he would be able to cross over to the Land of the Living because Miguel had promised. She also told him that he sent his regards. For a long time, Mamá Coco thought that the boy was just trying to give her peace of mind in her last months alive, but now that she had been reunited with her long-departed family, she understood all those cryptic messages Miguel had given her.

At the same time, her family had had a lot of fun recounting the night Miguel had visited them a year ago. The old woman was appalled that she had never even heard about it, but it could have been because she had been really out of it. Only Miguel’s singing that long-lost lullaby had been able to reawaken her mind enough to remember her papá, unknowingly pulling Héctor back from the abyss at the last moment.

Héctor hadn’t even considered that was a possibility.

The last thing he remembered from that night a year ago was the pull of darkness and feeling exhausted. Then, much to his surprised, he woke up in a big, springy mattress, with a thick blanket over his cold bones and drowning in at least three pillows. He was confused. Then Imelda had come in with reading glasses –  who knew, right? – and a pocket book in her hand. She had stopped at the threshold when she saw him awake, and the book fell from her hand.

Héctor slowly sat up, groaning at the soreness of his skeleton, feeling alarmed that he had managed to wind up in Imelda’s house of all places. He was more than ready for her insults and chanclazos, but he didn’t really want to experience them.

Imelda arrived at his side in a second, a frown on her mouth and her jaw tight, and she pushed him back into the pillows not unkindly but firm.

“You shouldn’t move yet,” she told him, not looking at him.

“Imelda…” Héctor started, but she shushed him.

“You should rest,” she said.

“How long have I been here?” he asked, confused. Why wasn’t she kicking him out?

“In my house? Since we left the concert venue, two days ago,” she answered, avoiding to look at his face while she tucked him inside the covers.

Héctor remained quiet, and Imelda picked up her book and sat down to read in silence, just like she had done so many, many years ago.

It had taken a while to get from that place to where they stood now, crossing together the Marigold Bridge hand in hand, dancing at the beautiful song that Miguel had composed for them, but slowly and patiently they had learned how to be with each other again. Héctor had the tragic immortality of a life-cut short; he’d never change the way life and experienced had change Imelda, who had become a strong, independent woman that people respected. She had matured through her grief, he had matured trough his dead.

Furthermore, now they had a gifted grandson who would make sure to tell, and maybe even sing, of the happiness, grief, tragedy, and love of their life. Miguel would tell the story of the life and death of Héctor and Imelda Rivera for generations to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Hijo de tu... = Son of your...  
> Te amo = I love you.
> 
> Please tell me if I missed any.


End file.
